The Scorpion Warrior
by Shadow Demonrage
Summary: If Harry had to describe him, he would say that he looked like a crossbreed between a wolf and a scorpion. And so ensues chaos and terror. PostHBP, Darkbutnotevil!Trio. AN: I'm working on it, but I do have a life, however effed up it may be. Still... R&R!
1. Prologue

_**TITLE: **The Scorpion Warrior_

_**Author: **Shadow Demonrage_

_**Setting:** AU, but postHBP. This picks up straight after HBP._

_**Pairings:** Harry/Ginny (very briefly, just because of HBP), Ron/Hermione (briefly), Ginny/Draco, Ron/OC, Remus/Tonks, and Harry/Hermione_

_**Genre:** Angst/Mystery/Action/Adventure_

_**Rating:** Mature (just to be on the safe side)_

_**Disclaimer:** Now, do you really have to ask? I own nothing but a computer, a TV, a stereo, a guitar, a bed, a notebook, and a pen. And sometimes not even that much._

_**SUMMARY:** His thirst for vengeance merely fueled by his mentor's death, Harry Potter sets out on a journey with his friends. This journey could very well change their lives, and, in fact, undoubtedly will, along with their views on the world and its machinations. What happens when the Golden Trio lose their innocence? Are they all they appear to be behind closed doors, or will they give in to the horrors within and turn into an evil that rivals Lord Voldemort himself: the Blackened Trio? Faced with the horrors of the Second Wizard War, Harry and his friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, must face their greatest fears in order to save the world once again. Who is the Scorpion Warrior, and what does he want with Harry? With the legendary Scorpion Warrior released into the world, will mother earth change for the good, honorable Light Side, or will all be lost to the Dark and corrupt side of the war? Read to find your answers, and receive more than you ever bargained for..._

**PROLOGUE**

Darkness. Cold. It's freezing. The man shuddered. No one could see him: he was blanketed by shadow. It was a good thing, too. He didn't want the Chosen One to see him. The man wasn't ready for that yet, and neither was the boy, to be perfectly frank. There was too much to be done, too many decisions to decide, and innumerable plans to be planned. But for now, the man was stuck. Stuck in the freaking cold rain as thunder bellowed at him to get a move on and lightning threatened to reveal to the boy where he was stationed uncomfortably. He had enough on his plate without that as well, thank you very much. And where was that stupid umbrella that the great oaf, Hagrid, always kept with him when you needed it? The imbecile would be only too pleased to lend it to the man for his use, after all. Hang on... was he a wizard or not? Growling at his ignorance, the man briefly flicked his wrist, and was pleased when a fairly well-sized umbrella was conjured from thin air and placed in his waiting palm. The umbrella seemed to be derived from the shadows he was hiding in, which made the man shudder. He was getting more and more like that bastard Snape every day. It scared him out of his wits to know that he could one day be as bat-like as the greasy lamebrain.

The man growled softly again, sulking at the thought of the hook-nosed Death Eater and potions master. If only the damn Half-Blood Prince hadn't gone out and ruined everything, he might not have any need to be standing in this aggressive storm. Why the fuck did Snape absolutely _have _to do that, anyway? Everything was going perfectly: all according to plan, and even Snape himself was following direct orders for once. That is, of course, until he just up and killed Albus, effectively screwing around with the Fates and the tapestry of life. Unless the Fates had predicted this as well? The man shook his head as a headache began to form above his right eyebrow, but the action merely worsened the problem and earned a few dripping black bangs in his eyes, as well.

Damn it all! Just damn it all to fucking hell! The so-called Chosen One wasn't supposed have been made to go through such a thing! Taking a deep breath and reflecting on those last few thoughts, the man decided that his wife was actually right, for once: he severely needed anger management classes. He truly swore too much for his own good. But... Bloody Hell, just look at the boy! He was supposed to be arrogant but talented; an exact carbon-copy of his father! But nooo... Instead, he had to grow up in a hellhole with the worst Muggles on the face of the Earth, only to be put through an even worse of a hell at school! Just God damn it all!

The man stopped his internal rant and admonished himself for not staying alert. It was like that man with the insane eye always says: _Constant Vigilance!_ A flash of lightning briefly illuminated his features, and the man snapped out of his musings in time to see the boy looking straight at him. "Oh, shit..." He cursed, glaring up at the heavens, as if asking them why he had to be the one to do this for them. Quickly and stealthily, he moved through the shadows, which had come back as the lightning disappeared to terrorize some other poor soul. Maybe the boy hadn't seen him. Just maybe... just maybe Horus was right... miracles _could _happen.

He snorted to himself. Horus. The gray-eyed beauty that would surely kill him when he got back to headquarters. The same black-haired, fair-skinned beauty that he happened to love. But he used to hate her. The brat was his worst enemy during his childhood days. Actually, she still is, in more ways than one. Still, things had changed. Both had reality come bite them in the ass way too soon for comfort, at a very inopportune time. Heck, life's a bitch, and sometimes it bites harder than its twin, also known as reality. Horus and he grew up, ignored childish grudges , and developed new and entirely alien feeling.

However , we're getting strayed from the story here.

Another flash of lightning made him curse again and move to yet another location. Even though the boy seemed to be watching the man, his stare could bore through stone and made the man feel very uneasy in his current situation. Ah, the Chosen One. Not much of a "Chosen One," really. He was just a boy. Granted, he was a rather brave boy, but still just a boy. He wasn't particularly excelling in school, except perhaps in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and even in that subject, he can't perform even the simplest of nonverbal magic. He isn't very special in looks either, unless that ever-famous scar on his forehead. Years o neglect and malnutrition had certainly done a number on him, and he was still as skinny as a toothpick. Not literally, of course, but you get the idea. He never exactly the best of clothes during the summer holidays, either, and that only added to his gaunt appearance. Actually, that's an understatement – the boy looks positively drab in those awful hand-me-downs passed on from his overly obese whale of a cousin. The messy, jet-black hair didn't help any. While his father could manage to use the hair to make him look more handsome, it only made the boy look, if possible, more unhealthy and dull. The only that held any significance on that scrawny body that doesn't include the lightning bolt-shaped scar is his eyes (although he would probably protest that fact.) They held everything about the boy. They normally showed his past, full of neglect and uncertainty; the present, full of hatred and despair, and the future, full of terror and a strange, underlying love.

The man sighed. Now... now those eyes mirrored his own, and, indeed, every other person that had been, has been, and will be in this war. A cross between insanity, helplessness, hope, apathy, leadership, and power – that's all that resides within the human eye in times of war. Hope, leadership, and power often lurk just beneath the surface; like a dream that you can't just remember. When you try to grab hold of it, it floats away, like a cloud, leaving you in its wake, confused and ignorant. Helplessness and apathy lead to insanity and, more often than not, depression, which then leads to suicide. Thus, no side of the war wins. Unless one man steps up and takes a stand against it. Sure, life's a bitch, and she sure knows how to bite, but there has to be someone willing to bite it right back. And the wizarding community as a whole has dumped their hopes, dreams, and future in the hands of a sixteen – almost seventeen-year-old boy, the one they hope will growl and bite back at what life has done to him. Ignorant idiots.

Right now, the boy was standing. Oh, yes, you heard correctly. Standing. In the rain. The Scorpion Warrior could hear his thoughts, and frankly, he was ready to rip the boy's neck off his shoulders and dump in the nearest pit of tar he could find. In other words, it was slowly drive him insane. If he wasn't insane already. The Chosen One was wearing a brilliantly white and soaked T-shirt that was a million sizes too big for him and tucked into tan slacks of equal size, held up only by a thin and still thinning piece of string. The only thing that attempted to warm the bare, skinny arms of the boy was a fading black jeans jacket. And he was just standing there, in his filthy family's garden, with his arms spread wide, welcoming the raging and roaring storm to his body like he would to Sirius Black if he were to suddenly hop out of his grave, alive. The rain was falling as hard as a waterfall would pour into a river and the dark gray clouds were unmerciful as lightning bolt after lightning bolt struck down upon the Earth like might swords slashing though a man's chest. This lightning impacting on the ground far away, making the air around it for miles tremble and shudder in its tremulous roar. Wind howled wildly, increasingly more savage than any wolf the Scorpion Warrior had ever seen or heard bay to the moon before.

The boy would be leaving soon, the Scorpion Warrior could see it in his eyes. He would stay at the house until his seventeenth birthday, as ordered by Albus, and then vengeance would rear its ugly head and the boy would take off running, with or without his little sidekicks to pull him out of the mud countless times. The Scorpion Warrior knew exactly where the boy would go, too; it was written all over his face. The terror of the Second War against Voldemort and the death of his mentor had reacted very harshly on Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Chosen One. And, although the boy didn't know it, the world also revered him as the Man-Who-Lived, Savior-From-Heaven, Man-From-The-Stars, Little-Boy-That-Could, Wanna-Be-Skywalker, and countless other titles that the boy himself would consider as monstrosities to mankind. The world believed him to be their savior: the one to save them from the terror and destruction that otherwise awaits them at the hands of an evil psychopath and his Dark Side followers. Death is welcomed by many; a preference to the torture and rape that is often exploited by Death Eaters and the Dark Lord Voldemort himself. It wasn't only Death Eaters and Voldemort, however, but also the general wizarding populace themselves. Panic hit the world like an endless tide, killing some and torturing more. Those that were temporarily unaffected by this panic were instead sent into depression by the loss of loved ones, again resulting in suicide. Not one person was safe from this panic wave, not even children. Just a week ago a young eight-year-old boy had committed suicide after the death of his parents. No one knows how it was done, for a young child of that age could not possibly be able to understand the panic that was swiftly spreading around all seven continents on Earth.

Yes, indeed: Life sure as hell is a bitch, and when it slaps you in the face and chews your ass out all day long, its hard to find a person that will stand against it all.

**_A/N: _This is my first fic, so play nice! A flame is a piece of shit to be ignored and hopefully not smelled, so hopefully I won't catch a whiff of that...**

**So, tell me what you think of it! It's very simple, you see. Even I, being a newbie and all, can tell you that there is a little square button near the bottom of the screen that isnext to a longer box. It's lavender in color. That's the little button you need to click on. Go on, try it out.**

**And to answer the question you must be dying to ask: Yes, I am absolutely insane. But don't call an asylum, please. I want to have a bit of fun first.**


	2. Chapter I

_Should have been dead  
On a Sunday morning  
Banging my head  
No time for mourning  
Ain't got no time_

**My Own Prison, by Creed**

Chapter I 

Harry let out a shuddering breath and sighed softly in his sleep. Jet-black hair was matted down over his scar by cold sweat. He was shivering slightly, his skin cool and clammy. If anyone were to look at him, they would say he was having a nightmare, laying on the bed and looking like a fallen angel. And yet, he wasn't having a nightmare at all. No, what he was seeing in his mind was a thousand times worse. He was having a vision, courtesy of Voldemort.

"_Crucio!"_

_Harry let out a shocked yell as his body teemed with pain. At the same time, Draco Malfoy screamed with a mix of terror and pain as he fell to the ground, writhing in a very un-Malfoy-ish way. Almost as soon as it started, the pain stopped, and Harry stopped biting his lip, which was now bleeding profusely. He let out a breath he didn't know he held, and looked around to see how the young Malfoy was faring._

_Malfoy was covered in sticky sweat, his face raw red and slimy with a mixture of tears, sweat, and snot. His white-blond hair fell to the floor weakly, as if it had been just as damaged by the Unforgivable Curse as Malfoy himself was. Icy gray eyes looked up, terrified to Voldemort's pale, snake-like face. As soon as gray eyes met red, Malfoy flinched and swiftly sat up, shifting so that all of his weight was resting on his knees. Harry winced slightly at the sight of him groveling to the monster that murdered his parents._

"_Draco Malfoy..." If velvet could have a voice, Lord Voldemort would be its mouth. The name rolled from his thin, white lips like waterfall flowing into a river. It sounded smooth and dangerous, if not a little high-pitched._

_Malfoy's wince was the only response he got, and it didn't seem to be enough for Voldemort._

"_Crucio!"_

_This time, Harry only managed to bite his lip for five seconds before exploding and screaming right along with his school nemesis. His scar pulsed with white-hot pain and he could swear that his bones were literally inflamed, licking away at his insides and consuming all of his energy. More sweat trickled down his face and into his eyes, and he could no longer care about anything else in the world. Pain overwhelmed his senses: it was everywhere; a part of everything and everyone, consuming, destroying, and torturing. It was in his mind, his heart, and his soul. It was like an eternal flame, flickering and burning until the end of time._

_Harry could no longer care about what Malfoy was doing. He didn't care about the prophecy, his friends, or the wizarding world. They could go and fuck themselves for all he cared. All he saw now was pain, and hunger. He felt a strange hunger for the pain to increase several notches to force him to go insane with pain. He wanted the curse to stop, but another part of him wanted this pain, _needed_ this pain. It made him feel human, like he was whole again, but he never was before. It assured him that, no matter what others may think, he was only human, not an angel that would swoop down from the heavens and save them from Voldemort. The hunger grew stronger and more terrifying as time wore on, the curse continuing. Harry would never be able to tell if this was a dream, nightmare, vision, or reality. In his world of pain, nothing else seemed to exist. There was no room for anger, or love; no room for any such emotion. Five seconds could have gone by, but it seemed like hours. And yet, at the same time, five hours could have gone by but seem like seconds. There was no space for the rules of time and space to apply, let alone be obliged. Harry couldn't see any color, either; one moment everything would be black, then white, and then gray. The dull consistencies were always different, and yet changed at a rapid speed that seemed created for the specific purpose of putting a Firebolt to shame._

_And then, all too soon for Harry and yet to the relief of his body, it all stopped. His throat was raw and dry from screaming itself hoarse, and he was trembling all over. Everything felt very cold all of a sudden – freezing, even. Harry looked around shakily, but didn't see any dementors or anything else to indicate the reason why it was so cold. Malfoy was trembling just as badly as Harry, and was making small whimpering noises, that, in his right state of mind, would have reminded Harry of an abandoned, kicked small puppy. Malfoy was in too much pain for any form of terror to show through his silvery orbs, but Voldemort seemed more than satisfied. Voldemort also seemed to have not noticed Harry in room with him._

"_Draco, Draco, Draco... hasn't your father ever taught you how to treat your superiors?" Voldemort asked softly, a trademark of his ruthlessness._

"_Y-y-yes, M-my L-l-lord." Malfoy stammered through trembling lips, his words barely distinguishable. Harry had to grudgingly respect the boy for being able to say as much as he did. Harry himself felt like a 2-ton weight had suddenly decided to make a nest on his jaw, and they seemed to be as tightly glued together as they would be if he dared to take a bite out of Hagrid's cooking. But then Harry felt more respect when suddenly Malfoy gathered up what little courage he had to spit in Voldemort's face, "But you're not one of them!"_

_With that, Harry world exploded ina world ofpain as Voldemort's cry of rage could be heard around the world._

"BOY!"

A loud, booming voice is what Harry woke up to. He couldn't bring himself to do anything about his uncle right now. In fact, he felt as petrified as he had when Malfoy actually cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on him last year and left him lying in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express last year. Therefore, he didn't react when Uncle Vernon burst through the door in all puce and green glory, clearly refraining from tearing the door right off its hinges there and then. Harry just lay there, staring at the ceiling, cold sweat clinging to every inch of his skin. His emerald green eyes were half-closed, almost wistfully, and his lips were parched and dry. A small trickle of blood leaked out of the of Harry's mouth gradually making its way down to the ratty pillowcase on which Harry's head lay. Uncle Vernon paid this no heed.

"BOY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? ARE YOU TRYING TO WAKE ALL OF EUROPE UP BECAUSE OF YOUR SCREAMING, FREAK? Trying to gain attention, that's what it is! Those freaks have got it in your mind that you're powerful and worthy of something, BUT YOU LISTEN HERE BOY! YOU ARE NOT FIT TO LICK THE MUD OFF MY SHOES! YOU FIND SOME WAY TO KEEP YOUR FILTHY SCREAMING UNDER CONTROL, OR WE WILL KICK YOU OUT OF THIS HOUSE!"

It was, Vernon knew, a null and void threat. He, himself was terrified of that man with the freaky eye and what he might do to harm himself or his family. But still, there had to be some way to get that brat to shut up! He was probably having hideous nightmares over his godfather's death... again. Stupid boy.

Harry paid him no mind. He stared at the ceiling, looking for all the world as if he was actually fascinating about the thing, lost in thought. Why had he enjoyed the pain? It didn't make any sense. He didn't have a death wish. At least, as far as he knew, he didn't. Having an insane, sadistic Dark Lord after your blood is something that can make one seem as though they do have a death wish. The voice of his uncle didn't even register in his brain except for as a very loud, very annoying noise that he had to shut up somehow. Harry reached over to his bedside table for his glasses, absently thinking that he needed to get his eyes repaired or something. Glasses would probably prove to be a hindrance in battle.

Uncle Vernon continued, "WE HAVE CLOTHED YOU, FED YOU – "

Vernon might as well have been talking to a rubber ball for the effect his rambling had on the boy. Harry slowly looked over at him, his mind still not very coherent, and carefully wiped the small trickle of blood from his face. He heard the words being spoken, butthey didn't seem to be understandable. When he was finally awake enough to understand the words flowing and spitting from his uncle's mouth, he groaned softly and sank back into the mangy pillow. When Uncle Vernon finally finished ranting, Harry seriously thought about going into the living room to call an animal shelter, for the obese man was frothing at the mouth, giving Harry the impression of a pig with rabies. Frankly, it was a little grotesque. Just a little.

Harry stood up and stretched as if waking up from a good, long nap, infuriating Uncle Vernon even farther and causing his puce face to reach what Harry dubbed "Explosion Time." Harry ignored him, choosing clothes over talk and stumbled through the mess of his room to reach his trunk. While he was changing, Uncle Vernon actually seemed to reach a new level of anger, but Harry decided to figure out a name for it later. For now, he would just enjoy the show. And so, the inevitable always happens –

"BOY! DON'T YOU DARE TURN YOUR FREAKY BACK ON ME! TURN AROUND AND FACE ME LIKE A MAN!"

Harry had to bite his tongue to stop from leaping into a bout of hysterical, bitter laughter. He was more of a man than Vernon Dursley ever was and ever will be or wish for. "Freaky" was the word he'd like to use in order to describe the comical on his uncle's face. The seemed to come straight from a cheesy cartoon. Of course, Harry had to admit, Uncle Vernon's anger was a lot more endurable than Voldemort's. Even Severus Sn –

Harry halted that line of thought before it got any farther. He wasn't in the mood to deal with his mentor's death, especially not after listening to his uncle go through a half-hour long tirade about "freaks and their freakish business with Voldiewhatsits, dementoids, fire-travel, and spell-casting riff-raff." Harry wasn't even sure if his uncle realized that he had just said the word "spell" in sense of magic under his own roof. The number one rule in the Dursley household was, and always will be, to never mention anything about "his kind" or "freaks."

When Uncle Vernon was finished this time, he thrust an extremely wrinkled piece of notebook paper at Harry and left the room, slamming the door closed behind him. Harry smirked at his uncle's retreating behind. The obese man had no sense of environment whatsoever. He hadn't even noticed what Harry was wearing, and if he had, Harry was sure the ranting would have gone on for many more hours.

Two weeks into the summer holidays, he had gone on a shopping spree, using what little money he had been able to transfer from Galleons to Muggle pounds from Gringotts. He bought a whole new wardrobe, not wanting to ever feel Dudley's castoffs on his body ever again. Harry looked at his new watch and frowned. It was Sunday morning. Early Sunday morning. He had heard that the Dursleys were planning on trying to go to church, but hadn't really believed it, instead choosing his own tale of how Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wanted an excuse to dress nicely and spoil their baby whale(Dudley) rotten. Apparently his _wonderful_ releatives decided that it would be fun to make him do chores that didn't even need to be done, all listed on the paper his uncle had thrown at him before leaving.

Harry sighed. This was _so_ not his day. First, endless torture. Second, finding out that he somehow actually _enjoyed_ said torture. Third, having an oh-so wonderful Voldemort-vision (as he called them in his head) about Malfoy being tortured and very possibly killed. Fourth, being awoken from said vision by a voice that, if Harry's own screams hadn't already, would have woken up all of Britain. Fifth, said voice ranting for half an hour straight. And there were chores to be done. _Great._

* * *

**_A/N: _Big thanx to:**

_mysticdueler_

_hunter64_

**and **_Sk8ernv_

**Thank you forreviewing the last chapter! I'm sorry this chapter is so short, and it still hasn't really gotten into the story yet, but I've been really busy lately. I'll try to make it up to you next chapter, but don't expect another update for another week or so. I'll try as hard as I can to update before then!**

**Yours,**

**Shadow Demonrage**


	3. Chapter II

_The sun rises to another day  
My constitution keeps changing  
'Til it slips away  
So I lie awake and stare  
My mind thinking, just wandering  
Does anybody care?  
Should I stay or go  
_**Illusion, by Creed**

**Chapter II**

Harry scowled darkly. His scowl only deepened when a drop of sweat fell gracefully onto the fence in front of him. That same drop of sweat just managed to smudge the paint he had just applied to the fence, and now that particular section looked completely _off_ compared to the rest of the fence. And it was actually noticeable. If possible, Harry scowl deepened even more before he gently brushed the spot over again with the bright tan paint. He then sighed when the spot was almost now impossible to see.

Harry's dislike for his so-called relatives deepened as the morning wore on. He was at first looking forward to almost a whole day Dursley-free, but his hopes were shattered as simply as a third-year student crushing beetle eyes to add to a potion. The list of chores took longer to complete than anticipated. He was made to do all of the laundry, including his own, paint the fence (as he had just now finished), and mow the lawn (if that lawn could be mowed any longer, it would be a sandbox). Frankly it was getting on his nerves. But then he happened to let the paper flutter down into the trash can, where he saw a new side of even more chores. Harry now had to weed the garden (but there were no weeds to _weed_), wash the dishes (what dishes?), change the bedsheets (_again?_), prepare dinner (which was fit to feed an army), and water the garden. Said garden wouldn't need his help in being watered because the sky was swiftly darkening with clouds for the first time in several years. If it rained, that would just be one less chore for him to complete.

By noon, Harry was seriously considering taking the butter knife he was using to smear mayonnaise on his sandwich and slitting his uncle's throat in his sleep. The simple black trousers and green shirt he had worn in the morning were currently clinging to his skin uncomfortably, courtesy of a thick layer of sweat happily coating itself to Harry's body. His unruly hair was even more ruffled than usual, an amazing feat, and was clinging to his forehead and the back of his neck. His arms and legs were sore and stiff as the seventh hell when Harry finally managed to trudge over to the table to sit down and eat his roast beef sandwich, and he swore he heard a faint 'pop' when he turned his head toward the ceiling. His back was not exactly being kind to him, either.

As he chewed tastelessly on the wheat bread in his hand, Harry considered what had happened in the vision this morning. He had craved the pain that Voldemort unwittingly cast upon him in the vision. Silently, he was disgusted, but he also came to accept the fact. What he still did not know was _why_ he craved that pain. Had he finally achieved what Voldemort had long ago and gone insane? If he _was_ insane, why was he actually forming coherent thoughts, unlike Frank and Alice Longbottom? Secretly, he also enjoyed seeing young Malfoy in pain, but was also curious as to what had happened to him. The Dark Lord had no doubt killed him, but a strange, uneasy feeling in the pit of Harry's stomach told him otherwise.

He wondered if he should tell anyone about the vision. Unlike in other visions, he remembered every detail vividly, as though a sketch pad had been acting of its own accord at the time and recorded everything going on in Harry's head. Who would he tell? Sirius obviously was not an option, he thought wryly as his stomach twisted painfully at the thought of his deceased godfather. Clearly, he couldn't exactly write a letter to Dumbledore, either. That thought caused an iron hand, similar in comparison to Peter Pettigrew's, to squeeze his chest tightly and painfully. The cut was still fresh, and it could very well be a while before it ever healed. If it ever did heal, it would certainly leave a scar. Harry winced, his appetite swiftly fading.

He got up slowly and disposed of the half-eaten sandwich. He then leaned against the counter for support as he continued thinking about current events. A composed letter wasn't an option anyway, for there was too much chance of it being intercepted, or, worse, returned. He could always spend a few hours transforming a painfully blatant letter into a coded note consisting of "Hello" and not much else. God knows he would choose that over chores any day. Hell, he would choose just about _anything_ over chores any day. Barring anything associated with Voldemort, of course.

Okay, so he may not be unable to tell anybody about the vision. Still, he couldn't just stand here and do nothing! With Dumbledore gone (his stomach flipped over painfully), the Order was likely to fall into shambles, as was the wizard populace as a whole, and all Voldemort would have to do is take one strike at the world and it would be his to command. Harry couldn't just stand by and watch anymore. How could he just be an innocent bystander after learning about Voldemort's Horcuruxes? There might actually be a chance to defeat him, and Harry wasn't ready to give up just yet. Without a main figurehead for the Light side, who would be there to help them? Hogwarts was likely to close after last year's events, the teachers would scatter, and McGonagall would likely take Dumbledore's place (another lurch of the stomach) as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. However, with the Light downhearted with the Dark's recent victory, Harry could see the end of the war looming on the horizon.

But then again, what could he do? He was just a boy. A schoolboy, no less. _No_, Harry argued with himself, absently wondering if he would be considered insane for doing so. _I haven't been a boy since Voldemort attacked my parents and I at Godric's Hollow on that Halloween night. Actually, I have never been a boy. From the point the prophecy was made I was a killer, raving on a path of revenge. I want to take part in this war. I _need_ to take part in this war. I'll find the Horcruxes and destroy, them, and then I'll give Voldemort what he deserves. Snape, Bellatrix, and Wormtail, too. I need to fight, if not for the good of the people, then to avenge my family. First my parents, then Sirius, and now Dumbledore. I cannot stand by any longer._

Despite the dark conviction in his thoughts, Harry was feeling quite the opposite. He told Dumbledore that he would stay with his relatives until his seventeenth birthday, which was still days away. Would it be too late then? He gave Dumbledore his word, but what use is a promise to a dead man? Harry knew the words were low: his heart clenched painfully at the thought. Yet it was true. Still, Harry maintained a sense of respect for the man, even as he knew he rested in his grave back at Hogwarts. No, he wouldn't break his word. However, the real question was, who will step up and take leadership of the Light now that Dumbledore couldn't?

**

* * *

**

Harry managed to rush through the rest of his chores and was able to collapse on his bed by four o'clock that evening. Here he lay still lost in thought, wondering, planning, and speculating. It was strange, really. Exactly two years ago from this day, he probably couldn't lie still long enough to think about anything on the bed. He had been too tense, waiting for any sign of news from his friends that might tell him what was going on. Voldemort hadn't made a move yet, and the Ministry was calling him an attention-seeking lunatic, one that should be approached with caution and hopefully captured by the Ministry before it was to late. Now he had too much to think about to be tense. All the news he could hear (or see) about Voldemort would have no meaning, for it would always be the same. There would be Death Eater raids on Muggle and wizard towns across the globe, where people would be dying, tortured, and raped. The innocent, those like Stan Shunpike, would be sent to Azkaban, the wizard prison that no longer securely held prisoners for its lack of dementors. Harry wondered what the world would be like if no one knew about Voldemort's return. He actually preferred being considered a raving lunatic than suddenly the "Chosen One," the one expected to save them all because of a prophecy that predicted as much.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice a flash of dark blue flame at the end of his bed. He did notice, however, when the calming trills of Phoenix Song could be heard in his room. Harry looked at the source and quickly looked away again. _Great_, Harry thought sarcastically. _Just great. So I really am insane. First craving pain, then spending the whole day following the Dursley's orders even when they aren't here, then arguing with myself, and now I see a hallucination of a very strange phoenix at the foot of my bed. Will it ever end? _Although, Harry had to admit, the hallucination was incredibly astounding. Phoenix Song trilled peacefully around the room while he turned to stare at the phoenix again, this time taking in the details.

The phoenix was pitch black in color with a dark, navy blue plumage and tail. Its feathers were outlined in an exotic and peculiar pattern of gold, silver, and bronze. To Harry, it looked like an artist's masterpiece put to life. Each feather seemed to have been dipped in molten gold, silver, or bronze, painted over with black or dark blue paint. The phoenix's claws resembled an eagle's because of its predatory look, but the difference was that one claw was shining bright silver, the other; gold. The beak was the same dark blue as the feathers on its tail. What really captivated him was its eyes. They looked like a pair of glistening emeralds stuck inside a ring of obsidian. They looked rather like a human's eyes, but without the whites. The pupil, instead of black, was bright, shimmering green, resembling the Unforgivable Killing Curse that Voldemort seemed to favor. The iris expanded throughout the rest of the eye and was pure, unadulterated black. Harry felt like he was staring into an abyss that only ended where the green light happened to be.

The phoenix squawked at him and Harry blinked. He had been staring into the phoenix's eyes for at least half an hour! There was no telling what the creature had done to him in that time! Phoenixes were considered incredibly Light magical animals, but Harry found this one very peculiar. He had never seen any phoenix quite like it. For all he knew, the phoenix could be a pet of Voldemort's, and the bird was reading his mind.

_Your knowledge of phoenixes is extremely limited._ A cheerful female voice echoed through his head. Harry leapt from the bed as if shocked by electricity and landed on the floor painfully. He swiftly rolled over onto his back and stood up shakily, staring at the phoenix. He made sure to avert his eyes so he wasn't looking straight into the phoenix's.

"Who are you?"

_My name is Scorpio, Chaos Phoenix. And you, Harry, have a pitiful name. It is far too common, not to mention very well known. I think I will call you... Xanthus. Yes, that sounds a lot better, doesn't it?_

Harry gaped openly. Who wouldn't? He began sputtering, "W-what? How – why – what – ?"

_Where, when and why? _The phoenix, Scorpio, seemed to snigger after her sarcastic offer.

"Huh?" Harry settled for that. He figured that it summed up all of the questions, not to mention vulgarities, that were swimming around his head faster than the Loch Ness monster could appear and reappear to Muggles.

Scorpio trilled softly again, and Harry's thoughts settled a little, but the feeling of immense confusion never left. _Perhaps I should explain. First, sit down. _Harry was scrupulous and unbelieving, not wishing to give be convinced that this bird was ordering him around in his own room. One loud squawk changed his mind, and he dropped down on the edge of the bed.

_First of all, I apologize for barging into your room uninvited like this. _Harry thought he sensed sarcasm in the apology, but shrugged it off as Scorpio continued in his head. _Second, I shall inform you that you will be seeing a lot of me in times to come. However, _Scorpio's sharp tone sliced through whatever protest Harry was going give. _However, this does mean that I will be your constant companion. I'm like Fawkes was to Dumbledore, except I have two owners, not one. _Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, but Scorpio continued. _I was bonded to you, Xanthus, the day you were born. This proved to be a bit of problem for my other owner and I. I was also bonded to the Scorpion Warrior, which was how I earned my name, when he was born, and so when we discovered that I was bonded to a second, it was a shocking discovery._

The phoenix paused, and Harry stared. Again, he said the one word that would sum up all of his thoughts, "Huh?" Scorpio seemed to sigh before launching into an explanation that would describe the previous one.

_Two thousand years ago, there were many more phoenixes then than there are now. _That much Harry could guess, but it didn't explain a damn thing to him. _There were three clans, or tribes, of phoenixes, the Light, the Dark, and the Chaos. Light and Dark, as you can imagine, were always fighting. This was one reason why our race began to die out. Chaos, however, was the balance between the two. The Chaos elder, Tetradran, was said to have had four heads: two to keep the Light phoenixes in check and two for the Dark. This is only a myth among wizard humans, but all phoenixes know it to be true. The heads were supposed to be able to separate from Tetradran completely and morph into a large dragon by mental command. These dragons would often restrain the Light phoenixes when they were on the edge of depression or even suicide. The wars were very bad during that time. There were very few of the Light left, but thousands of the Dark remained. If Chaos didn't do something soon, the Dark would win over the Light and balance would be entirely disrupted. So, Tetradran released all of his heads, thereby killing his phoenix body, along with twenty-two hundred thousand Chaos phoenixes to restore order. Together, they killed off more than three-fourths of the Dark population. This made equalization, and the wars were evenly balanced between the two. However, the Chaos were now torn between their ways and their lives. In order to keep balance perfect, they had to reduce themselves to what the Dark and Light was: a little over two thousand phoenixes total. Eventually, their ways on out and the more powerful phoenixes killed the lesser. This continued for several decades until everything was perfectly even._

_Because there were so few phoenixes left, they created a truce of balance, known to phoenixes today as the Tregua de Equilibre. Tregua is Italian for "truce," de is Spanish for "of," and Equilibre can be translated in several languages, namely French, as "balance." After the truce was signed by all phoenixes of the time (using ink and the tip of their beak), no phoenix was able to attack another unless their bonded ordered them to do so. One section of the treaty described how bonding would work. In order to keep balance and preserve our species, we would need humans to help us. At this time, other humans were tearing down our habitats for their own usage, and we were forced to hide on an island called Avalon. Phoenix resources, such as food, water, and shelter, were severely limited on this island._

_Tetradran's apprentice took his place and became the leader of our people; Tylon. Tylon was very wise. Wiser, perhaps, than Tetradran himself. He had many magical powers, and could even use human magic given the certain situation. He used his magic to send beacons around the world. These beacons were not visible, nor tangible. There would be one designated for each and every phoenix on Avalon, and they would enter a human's bloodstream. When the human turns eleven, the beacon is activated, alerting the phoenix that the beacon is magically connected to. It sounds as a very loud alarm going through a phoenix's head. If the phoenix does not go to their bonded within a decade, they will die. Until such time as they find their bonded, they experience excruciating pain for one hour every week. A reminder, of sorts._

_Of course, the beacons don't just go to any human in the world. The human has to be magical, and extremely powerful. This was a precaution made by Tylon to ensure the safety of the phoenixes under his command and give the phoenix the immortality that you know phoenixes have today. Not every phoenix is immortal, Xanthus; only those that are bonded. The human in question must be expected to make great contributions to the world, either good or bad, and also be within a power level of 750 shots to 7000 shots. Shots are like Muggle electricity volts. Any higher than that and the phoenix would explode from the amount of power; any lower and the phoenix would simply die._

Harry blinked. Then blinked again. He then stared unblinkingly at the emerald and obsidian eyes in front of him. He averted his eyes and cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry. He tried to open his mouth, couldn't think of anything to say, and shut it again with a small snap. Harry closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, only to find that there wasn't anything to clear. His mind was blank. He tried to swallow a lump the size of a dragon's egg that was in his throat and opened his mouth again. He snapped shut once more. If he was in his right state of mind, Harry would notice that Scorpion seemed to be quivering with high laughter. Harry blinked again, then rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses, experimenting to see if that would stop his erratic blinking problem. Instead, he accidentally poked himself in his right away, making them water painfully as he tried to blink away the pain. Scorpio now seemed to be doubled over in laughter. Harry couldn't even form the words to protest that that did not explain how the phoenix was bonded to _two _humans, and it certainly didn't explain who the Scorpion Warrior was. The lump in his throat got bigger, and he went into a coughing fit to get rid of it.

When gears began turning in his head again and Scorpio regained her composure (some fifteen minutes later) Harry managed to croak out, "Wow. I need some fresh air." Scorpio looked at him a little worriedly. He looked a little worse for wear right now, and the thundering storm that was brewing outside was _not_ what he needed, in the Chaos phoenix's opinion. Harry ignored her and opened the door, trying to disregard the creaking pain in his arms as he did so. Today was definitely _not_ his day.

**

* * *

****_A/N:_ Poor Harry! I haven't even finished writing out the day yet, and he's already having a really bad time of it! Mwahahaha!**

**I know, I know it's been a while since I've updated, and I'm sorry for that, but I've been forced to spend time _away_ from my computer and with my grandparents, who came over to out house for Spring Break. Just so you know, I was half-asleep when I wrote this, because I had to do it at night when everybody was asleep. Don't kill me for any mistakes or errors please!**

**It is longer than the last chapter, but still short. It's only 6 pages on Microsoft Word! I'm hoping to get twenty into the next chapter, but my grandparents aren't leaving for another week or so.**

**Big thanx to:**

_Hunter64_

**And**

_mysticdueler_

**For reviewing the last chapter.**

* * *

**Come on, people! Only two reviews last time! Even the first chapter got more than that! It doesn't take very long, you know. Just click a button, type some nonsense, and click another button. I know a two-year-old cousin of mine who can manage that much!**


	4. Chapter III

_Well I just heard the news today  
It seems my life is going to change  
I close my eyes, begin to pray  
Then tears of joy stream down my face  
_**With Arms Wide Open, by Creed**

**Chapter III**

Pain. Did anything else exist? Probably not. His thoughts were blank and clear, holding no coherent meaning or intelligence. Was he insane? Someone was laughing – high-pitched and slightly hysterical, it sounded through the dull room, incessantly echoing around him, his ears, around his legs, arms, head, and torso. Who was laughing? Was it him? It was. When this thought came to mind, the laughter died down, but slowly, as if going down a spiral drain. Silvery eyes looked up blearily from behind his red-haired fringe.

Red-haired? Indeed. The platinum-blond hair seemed to have been replaced sometime overnight. Overnight? Had it been? Or had it been a fortnight? He didn't know. He didn't know much anymore. Except pain. It was his friend. It always has been. Draco snorted bitterly, recalling those nights of pain, stumbling anxiously through the Slytherin common room, skin pale and clammy, hands trembling as they found the razor blade in the bathroom...

He sighed in content as, in his mind, he watched blood flow freely, continuously, into the silvery marble sink in the boy's bathroom. He felt how his breathing slowed to a calming rhythm while his heart pumped erratically, he felt the cool coldness of the razor blade against his wrist, offering comfort, protection...

_Protection. Help me. Save me. Somebody. Pain... save me, Pain..._

Bitter laughter suddenly echoed around the room again, and it took longer for him to realize that it was him doing the laughing. When he did, the laughter halted instantly. He'd given up on protection a long time ago. Once, several years in the past, he would have actually forced himself to have the courage to ask Dumbledore, hell, even Potter to be his savior, to save him from inevitably becoming what he'd always wanted to fight. Serving a megalomaniac with an ego the size of the Milky Way wasn't exactly his idea of a nice, comfortable life. His picture of life was quiet, with a nice, intelligent wife, who was bossy, prissy, or bitchy. His life had no deaths in it, no real worries except whether or not maybe to get a dog or have kids.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. A snort of laughter escaped at that thought. He was going senile, just like Dumbledore had been before he died, and he himself barely came of age last month, on June 29th(1). What was the world coming to?

Draco sighed at his own rhetorical question. What _was_ the world coming to? He had been raised to be a good little Death Eater, a loyal supporter of the Dark Lord Voldemort, just like his own father. Then someone, his mother, showed him the Light. She showed him that there was more to live for than blood purity and mindless killing and torturing. She showed him what no one else ever could, and ever will show him: love. As sappy as the thought first seemed in his head, Draco soon realized that it was the reason that those foolhardy Gryffindors always kept fighting, usually against him. It was their love for each other.

Oh sure, he and his friends were close, but they were always wanting to get a taste of his wealth and name. He had never had true friends, unlike Potter. Oh, how he envied the spoiled little hero. He always got everything he wanted on a silver platter: loyal friends, special privileges, exemption of seemingly most school rules, favor of almost all teachers not counting Severus Snape; fame, as opposed to his infamy, power, protection... Hell, the Chosen One had more of a life than Draco did. And he was drowning in envy as a result. Always Potter, Saint Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One; Harry Potter, the wizard world's savior; constantly at the beck and call of the Light side. Then there was he, Draco Malfoy, suspected of horrible, inhuman crimes; the infamous Malfoy heir, Death Eater-in-training, runner-up to take the right-hand place at his master's side, all-around slimy Slytherin snakehead that would like nothing more than to present Harry Potter's head to Voldemort.

If only the world understood how wrong they were. If only they understood how he grew up, always expected to be the perfect epitome of a pureblood from an entirely pureblooded society. No one understood what it was like to be beaten for every tiny imperfect thing done, and yet rewarded with something that make the happiest man earth even happier. They didn't understand what he had to go through to keep his mother, the only good thing in his life, safe. Nobody understood what it was like to be a Death Eater's son, but not want to follow in said Death Eater's footsteps. If anyone did understand, he'd have been saved – or at least given protection – a long time ago.

And hence the words echoed in his head like a ceaselessly buzzing bee:

_Protection. Help me. Save me. Somebody. Pain... save me, Pain...

* * *

_

The room was filled with the epitome of evil. The floor was black and shiny, seemingly pure obsidian gleaming by the silver light from the magical brass torches lining the walls. Said walls were gleaming dark red, looking like they had been painted with blood – which they no doubt had. The ceiling couldn't even be seen. It rose so high that nothing but shadow could be viewed. A thin figure, deathly pale with skin stretched taut over fragile bones, sat in a throne. This throne seemed to have been made by the very demons of Hell. The throne was made of a transfigured human, the bones cracking and changing their position – into a chair. It was actually looked a little comfortable. The skin was not stretched so tautly as the snake-like figure sitting in it. It was warm, soft, and cushy – perfect reclining and relaxing after a long day's work of attempting world dominance. However, this was not what the occupant was doing. No, far from it, actually.

Said occupant was not very happy. Actually, he usually never was, but that was beside the point. His long, slender finders clutched an equally long, smooth stick that glowed in the silver light of the magical fire burning in their torches. An indiscernible figured kneeled before him, in what was obviously a very uncomfortable position. That position also threatened the figure's pride, for it was softly murmuring words of genuflection and prostration to the demon in the man-made throne. Frankly, the demon was a little pleased with this, amused by the figure's antics, and bored with the same treatment he clearly always received. Although it was great fuel for his overly conceited ego, not mention extremely entertaining, there was business to get down to.

The cat-like scarlet eyes of the demon narrowed darkly at the kneeling form in front of him. "Keep him alive!" He hissed in a high-pitched tone, the underlying threat hanging over the man's head like a constant companion.

"Of course, Milord." Severus whispered obediently, not looking up from his distinctly uncomfortable position in front of the Dark Lord.

"Go. Before I change my mind."

"Yes, Milord." Severus stood, ignoring the groaning pain from his knees, and bowed to Voldemort before swiftly exiting the room, robes billowing like giant flames as he left.

Lord Voldemort smiled. It was barely noticeable, but his thin lips did seem to thin just a little more. Severus Snape was a loyal Death Eater: he would make sure that Draco stayed alive long enough for him to torture him more for whatever information the brat may have. He was sure that the young Malfoy was already crazy, if not downright insane, but toying with the young was always such fun. Their screams of terror and pain were far more satisfying than that of an adult's. Which was, of course, why Severus got off so easy, being tortured for only a few seconds under the Cruciatus Curse instead of the many and various methods that had been on Draco for a very, very long time.

Wormtail and Lucius, surprisingly, were working quite well together, watching #4 Privet Drive like a snake watches its prey. Apparently young Harry Potter had, foolishly returned to the house and was likely to leave on July 31st, which was when Severus had told him the wards around the house would fall. The day was only 36 hours away, and there was some major planning to be done: they would raid Privet Drive extremely early in the morning on August 1st.

* * *

_Protection. Help me. Save me. Somebody. Pain... save me, Pain..._

As if answering his silent call, the cell door slammed open violently, but the person in the doorway wasn't exactly going to save him. Draco's reaction time was slower than normal, for the pain was too great for much to register in his fogged mind. Something was wrong with his olfactory senses as well: he couldn't smell a damn thing. If he could, the metallic twang of blood would have made him retch whatever insides he had, and the mud and slime covering his body would not help. Draco mistook said mud and slime for particularly tight and uncomfortable clothing.

Snape stood tall and rigid as he took in the horrific sight of his godson. Draco's hair was a deeper red than any Weasely could possibly hope for, his clothes had been torn and discarded sometime during the private torturing session, and his usually pale skin was completely covered in mud, slime and blood. Severus was sure that there were a thousand cuts underneath the grime, and he felt his heart cry out to the boy. Draco didn't deserve this; he had done nothing, _nothing _to warrant such foul treatment. If only he could take him to the Order of the Phoenix headquarters, they would both be safe. He mentally slapped himself harshly for that thought – the Order would more likely just kill them both painlessly, for weren't exactly heroes to their cause right now.

Before he could so much as lift his wand to cast anything, Severus heard a vast commotion out in the hallway leading to this boy's prison – ahem – room. Radically irritated, he spun away from the distant boy and out into the hallway, accidentally leaving the cell's door ajar.

Out in the hallway, chaos had ensued. The corridor was full of bright jets of light flying in every direction: Severus had to conjure a small brick wall to barricade himself behind. Peeking around the conjured wall, Snape saw a battle raging steadily, but what two sides were involved was, as yet, lost to him. It appeared that the Order of the Phoenix managed to find Death Eater Palace, their nickname for the place, and decided to come in and kill off as many Death Eaters as possible. However, this confused Snape. That wasn't a Light Side's tactic. In fact, it was a very Slytherin thing to do. The Death Eaters were not expecting any kind of attack from the enemy, even if that enemy somehow knew their whereabouts. Who was put in charge of the Order after Albus... stepped down?

It appeared, however, that it was not the Order, after all. It was, in fact, merely two people, and they managed to destroy half of the corridor and kill eight Death Eaters, maiming five more in less than five minutes. They were clearly on a mission, and it was their job to accomplish its objectives. Snape heard before he saw a man, tall and muscular, whisper a spell. He knew what was about to happen a second too late, and the wall in front of him exploded in a million pieces, sending him sprawling to the floor. He curled up in a tight ball, wand long forgotten, and used his hand to protect his head and neck. The explosion caused searing pain to erupt all over his back, and everything went black.

The Scorpion Warrior smiled viciously, but decided to leave the pathetic man alive for the Chosen One. He nodded to Horus, who created an eerie, transparent shield around Snape. The shield would keep him alive until the Death-Healers(2) arrived. They then walked around the pile of smoldering robes, being sure to step on his wand as they passed, and ducked into the room where Draco curled in a corner frightfully, futilely trying to protect himself.

The Scorpion Warrior's vicious smile softened and he walked slowly to the boy, crouching before him, Horus following his example. Draco was whimpering softly, tears of fear streaking from his silvery-gray eyes and down his blood-caked face. "Shhh... everything's going to be fine, Dragon, just wait... shhh..." Horus took over after that. Without a glance at the mud, slime, and blood thickly covering the normally pale skin, she crawled up to him and slowly wrapped her arms around his chest, offering all the comfort she could.

"Hush, young one, you're safe now."

* * *

Scorpio groaned inwardly as her second-bonded practically sprinted down the stairs of the empty house and almost _flew_ out the door. Foolish boy. Standing out in the middle of a crazed, raging storm wouldn't solve anything. However, the Chosen One apparently thought otherwise, and, being the oh-so _faithful_ bird Scorpio was, she had to fly out into said raging storm and look after the boy. _What a delightful, high-paying job_, the Chaos Phoenix thought sarcastically and disappeared in a burst of dark blue flame, reappearing just in front of the ajar front door.

Scorpio groaned inwardly as her second-bonded practically sprinted down the stairs of the empty house and almost out the door. Foolish boy. Standing out in the middle of a crazed, raging storm wouldn't solve anything. However, the Chosen One apparently thought otherwise, and, being the oh-so bird Scorpio was, she had to fly out into said raging storm and look after the boy. , the Chaos Phoenix thought sarcastically and disappeared in a burst of dark blue flame, reappearing just in front of the ajar front door.

The sight that greeted her made Scorpio fill a bizarre urge to bang her small head against the doorframe a few good times. The Chosen One was hugging the storm. Hugging it. _Hugging_ it. _HUGGING _it. Well, Scorpio supposed, it was actually rather impossible for Harry to _hug_ the storm, but he seemed to be at least embracing the idea of it. In fact, he reminded her of the Scorpion Warrior, very strongly. Hadn't he done this exact same thing, standing on top of the tallest tower of his mansion/castle, arms spread out while wind roared and thunder boomed? Of course, the Scorpion Warrior was the _cause_ of that storm. But still, the fact remained: Harry Potter was _HUGGING_ the raging storm. I think you get the point by now. _Was he trying to get himself killed?

* * *

_

It was in him, around him... it _was_ him. It roared and boomed, howled and screeched, bending trees to their fullest extent and washing out the dirt that was in Mrs. Figg's driveway. His arms were spread wide, wanting to feel it more, feel the power surging through his body and out his fingertips, intoxicating him, burying him deep in the ground with the immense concentration of force.

It was in him, around him... it him. It roared and boomed, howled and screeched, bending trees to their fullest extent and washing out the dirt that was in Mrs. Figg's driveway. His arms were spread wide, wanting to feel it more, feel the power surging through his body and out his fingertips, intoxicating him, burying him deep in the ground with the immense concentration of force.

Lightning flew around him, blinding him, striking the ground everywhere and clapping a loud thunder for the whole world to hear. Wind shrieked and howled in his ears, deafening him, whipping at him, tearing up the ground around him and forcing him to his knees. It was the second storm in two and half weeks – the second storm he had run into to help calm down and grasp a firm hold on his emotions. But this storm was worse than the last. The last was dangerous – this one was positively, hazardously disastrous.

Harry smiled like a Cheshire cat. As the storm raged around him, the one inside him slowly dissipated. The resulting feeling left him feeling intoxicated, ecstatic, and exhilarated all at the same time. It left him feeling high above the clouds, like when Mad-Eye Moody, being his paranoid self, suggested they fly into them to keep hidden during the summer after fourth year. The thought made the storm inside him stir. Fourth year. Cedric Diggory died that year. He died, there in that graveyard, never to be heard from again. Then there was the duel. Actually, it was more of short scuffle. This scuffle had a lot of pain in it.

He closed his eyes tightly, willing the ghostly image of the echo of his parents to go away. The prospect of seeing his parents again excited him. It was a prospect Harry hadn't considered before, but he thought about it now. _Priori Incantatem _had been the result of two brother wands fighting against each other. They both quested for dominance, and Harry's wand won. He had seen Cedric one last time that night, along with that Ministry worker and an old Muggle, Frank Bryce, along with his parents. His parents. The thought excited him. Surely Voldemort would very likely have killed many more people now, but if he could stall long enough, his parents may just appear again... the possibility both frightened him and sent waves of anticipation down his spine. Harry quickly shook his head. What would he do, should it come to that? Walk up to Voldemort, politely ask for a nice duel, risk his life and make sure _Priori Incantatem_ woks in his favor? Yeah, right. He would sooner kiss the hems of Draco Malfoy's robe than do something as stupid as that.

* * *

If a phoenix could growl, Scorpio would have done so. Loudly. Exactly how that boy was shielding himself from her, and anybody else for that matter, was mystery. A soft, nearly translucent white shield formed a dome around Harry, seemingly only allowing the storm to touch him. Scorpio could not Flame to him either: the milky white shield prevented that too. Now, if anything was frustrating to a phoenix, it was not being able to get to her bonded.

With an irritated squawk, the beautiful Chaos Phoenix barreled through the open front door and into the raging storm. The force of the wind startled Scorpio for a moment. She had, of course, been expecting that, but it was a whole other thing when she actually experienced it. Her wings flapped frantically for a moment, feathers weighed down by the heavy rain, before gaining some resemblance of balance. Scorpio dove straight toward the shield surrounding Harry.

"SQUAWK!" Scorpio's angry – or pissed – cry of frustration, no matter how loud it was, couldn't even be heard by herself over the deafening thunder claps in the not-so-distant distance. Scorpio trilled angrily, almost forgetting about the storm and being thrown off balance again. Mentally, desperately, Scorpio searched for her first-bonded, the one that would truly help in a situation like this. It took a few moments, but there it was – a bright, silver beam of magic shining through their mental link. It was pulsing slightly, radiating hatred at someone or something that Scorpio could only guess at. Flaming safely to the shelter of #4, she sent a brief feeling of her anger and hopelessness through the mind link. In three seconds flat, the pulsating hatred immediately became soothing and calm.

Exactly five seconds after that, the loudest thunder clap yet resounded through Privet Drive, terrifying the young Chaos Phoenix, startling the Chosen One, and deafening the other inhabitants of Privet Drive. Scorpio peered a little frightfully through the feathers that had covered her small, obsidian-emerald eyes the moment strong sound waves reached her sensitive ears. She spent a small wave of pain, coupled with the previous anger and hopelessness through the link. Scorpio was met with a wave of amusement and sympathy. She scowled, but then perked up, telling herself to stop acting to childish. Then, if a phoenix could smile, Scorpio would have broken her beak just then. The Scorpion Warrior had arrived.

* * *

**1 Yes, I realize that that is probably not Draco Malfoy's real birthdate, but I don't know what it really is, so I had to compensate somehow.**

**2 I know it's not very original but it's the first thing that came into my head. Death-Healers, as you can probably guess, are highly skilled Healers in the service of the Dark Lord.**

**A/N: I don't mind if you kill me right now. I would do the same (beats head against desk repeatedly, punches monitor, and finally pulls out ever-so faithful Uzi). How long has it been?A little over a month. Well, shit. Sorry about that. I know, in every chapter I've updated so far, I've said that I'm sorry for not updating. Dammit, I didn't even meet close to the number of pages I was hoping for this to be. There are only 7 on Word, and it would have been 6 if not for my rambling. Again, I'm sorry, but I have been extremely buy lately. I get around 30 minutes of spare time every day, and I try to use it for updating. It doesn't help that my computer seems to enjoy breaking down every other day.**

**PLEASE R&R! IT ENCOURAGES ME TO RIGHT MORE!**

**I am also not afraid of constructive criticism. In fact, I could really use some. Every writer can improve their work sometime.**


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